An hour later and finally the questions — many of them hostile — from the audience dried up.
It seemed to Sarah that most people were against the superstore, but Eva Weiss handled everything without getting a hair out of place.
“Thank you again, very much, Ms. Weiss for that comprehensive presentation and for answering our questions. The Council will now make its judgement.”
Sarah saw the Chairman give her a nod to sit down, then the councillors conferred with their microphones switched off.
The hall filled with the sound of conversation and argument. Sarah suspected that most people didn’t know how these council meetings worked. But she knew that this, right now, was the crucial moment.
She was surprised when the Chairman reached for the gavel and hit it three times on the table for silence.
They’ve only been discussing for a minute, she thought. Surely they haven’t made a decision …
But it seemed they had.
The Chairman waited for the last of the muttering to die down, then spoke into his microphone.
“Parish Council has decided to support the application and that support will be made known to the District Council in due course. Any other business?”
But the Chairman didn’t come close to hearing what other business there might be, because chaos instantly broke out in the hall.
Sarah saw people all around standing up and starting to shout.
“Are you out of your minds?!”
“Bastards have bought this council — it’s a total sham!”
“Turn it down! Kick it out!”
“Build it somewhere else!”
“No Zakro here!”
“Not in our name!”
Down below on the floor of the hall, Sarah could see the Chairman waving his arms and trying to restore some kind of order. Tony Standish picked up the gavel and hit it hard upon the table but in the din Sarah could hardly even hear it.
The members of the Council seemed to be frozen in their seats by the unexpected turn of events.
Sarah saw Eva Weiss and her young assistant scoop up the laptop and head for the rear exit, mission accomplished.
She’s certainly been here before, thought Sarah. What an escape artist!
Then a man Sarah didn’t recognise ran to the front and grabbed at one of the microphones from a female councillor.
The old lady fought him bravely, but in the end Sarah watched as she had to surrender.
Dressed in an ancient Barbour, with long straggly grey hair and a beard, the man looked to Sarah like the last hippy left over from the 60’s.
“People of Cherringham!” he shouted into the microphone, leaping onto the stage behind the councillors. His voice so loud that the room hushed immediately.
Everybody stopped.
He paused, as if he hadn’t thought through what to do next — then hit his stride and held his other hand high like a preacher.
“You know me! I’m Sam Lewis — I breed the boars down on Ingleston Farm. Right next to where these bastards are going to build their bloody supermarket! And you know what that means to me, don’t you? It means the end! The end of my farm. The end of everything I’ve built. Everything I’ve dreamed of. My wonderful herd of wild boar.”
“No! Shame! That won’t happen!” shouted various voices from the floor.
“My farm’s always been about being natural,” continued Sam Lewis, seeming to get into it now. “Proper animals fed properly on proper land. Not the kind of processed crap you’ll get at Zakro’s. But these bastards — they want to build right next to my farm. Take out the woods where my boar forage. Chuck their bloody waste into the river. Bring traffic down our lanes.”
Sam Lewis looked around the room. Ex-hippy or not, he had everyone’s attention.
“And now these idiots on the Council have said yes to them! But we’re not going to let them — are we?”
“No!” came the cry from the crowd.
As a man jumped to his feet next to her, Sarah held Chloe’s arm tight.
It was as if an electric current had been passed through the audience.
She could see the Chairman calling for order.
“Mum, what’s happening?” said Chloe.
“They’re going to force the meeting to end—”
“But, surely this isn’t the right way …”
“No love.”
Sarah looked down into the hall. A lot of people were on their feet.
She could see the hippy really getting into the swing.
“We’re going to smash the Zakros! Wherever we see ’em! Smash ’em in the fields! Smash ’em on the roads! Smash ’em in the meetings!”
He took a breath, “This is our village!”
The crowd roared its approval. Sarah could see that even the most mild-mannered of her friends were now on their feet cheering this unlikely revolutionary.
Then she saw the main doors burst open — and the supporters of the development flooded in, scattering through the hall.
Oh no, thought Sarah. This is going to be bad …
The two groups collided. Scuffles started to break out.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please, please!” called the Chairman plaintively through one of the microphones.
Somebody threw a chair at him. Sarah saw him duck to avoid it. Mr. Bassett the funeral director fell over.
Behind the councillors, up on the stage, Sam Lewis seemed finally to realise what he had unleashed.
“Hang on, brothers — wait! No need to fight! When I said smash them — I didn’t mean—”
But before he could continue, someone had ripped the mike from his hands and pushed him off the stage into the crowd of ‘yes’ supporters.
Sarah saw a fist flying, and Sam Lewis seemed to disappear into one great brawling mass.
Then the side doors of the hall burst open and a group of policemen rushed in.
They quickly surrounded the councillors, who had their hands on their heads to protect against more flying debris, and led them to safety through the back of the hall.
She turned to Chloe.
“We’re getting out of here. Come on.”
Chloe didn’t need telling.
Sarah grabbed her hand and led her to the back stairs that went down to a fire exit. All those years of helping out at mother and toddler group meant that Sarah knew every inch of the building.
And as she and Chloe ran down the stairs and pushed their way through the fire doors into the night air, she could still hear the sounds of people fighting.
So much for democracy in action, she thought.
And then.
What the hell’s happened to Cherringham?
3. Down on the Farm
Sam Lewis drained his pint of Wadworth’s 4X and placed it back on the bar.
“Same again, Sam?” said Billy behind the bar.
Sam blinked and tried to do the maths. How many had he had now? Was that six? Or seven?
He couldn’t remember. He felt a bit wobbly sitting up here on a barstool, but that might or might not be the drink.
He reached into his pocket and felt around.
No bloody money anyway. So that settles it.
“Nah,” he said. “Gonna hit the road.”
He watched Billy drying a glass with a bar towel then looked around the Ploughman’s.
Save for Sam, the place was empty.
“Where is everyone?” he said to Billy.
“We closed an hour ago, Sam.”
“What am I doing here then?”
“Wanted to keep my eye on you. Nasty bump that is.”
Sam tried to remember what had happened. Then it all came back.
The meeting at the Village Hall. His little speech.
Somebody calling him out — then hitting him before he was ready.
Who was it who’d hit him? Could have been anyone.
He tried to remember.
Maybe it was a copper?
He certainly remembered some copper dr
agging him outside.
What a night.
“You want me to call Joel — so’s he can come and pick you up?” said Billy. “Only we’re closing for real now Sam — you’ve got to go.”
Sam thought about that. His brother Joel would be in bed by now.
Or watching his stupid new TV.
Bloody thing’s nearly as big as my tractor!
“Nah, it’s all right. I’ll walk it.”
Sam saw Billy’s daughter Lisa come round from the back of the bar.
“You sure you’re up to it, my lovely?” she said.
She leaned in and inspected his head.
He put his hand up to touch the bandage.
“Ouch. That bloody hurts, that does.”
“Like Dad says — you must have taken a fair old wallop.”
“Should have seen the other guy,” said Sam, forcing a grin.
“You’re too old for this stuff,” said Billy.
“And you’ve got enough enemies round here already Sam — don’t want more.”
“Bloody humans,” said Sam. “Gimme my boars anytime!”
“Don’t knock it,” said Billy. “Some of my best customers are human.”
Sam looked at him, and laughed.
“Salt of the earth you are Billy.”
“Maybe,” said Billy. “Now bugger off home, you. And you make sure you see the doctor in the morning, right?”
Sam stood up from the barstool.
Whoa, got a bit of room-spin going on here …
“Sure you’re all right?” said Lisa, holding him steady.
Sam gave her a kiss.
“Love you and leave you,” he said.
“I should hope so,” said Lisa, backing away with a grin. “You smell like them pigs of yours.”
“Boars, not pigs,” said Sam. “And boars smell lovely, they do, so I take that the way I’m sure you intended.”
And he turned from the bar and looped his way to the pub door and out into the wintry night.
*
By the time Sam reached the meadows by the river, he felt a bit better.
Sure, his head still hurt and there was a whooshing sound in his right ear, but at least he’d stopped falling over.
Must have been a bad pint, that last one, he thought.
Drop of Scotch should settle that. Watch a bit of footy on the telly. Get me head straight.
He went through the little gate then walked along the footpath. It had started to rain, but he had no coat. On the other side of the river, he could see the line of houseboats and barges.
His old mate Ray might be up for a nightcap. Ray had called him earlier, wanting to meet up.
He’d been down at the Ploughman’s too. But somehow Sam had missed him.
He stopped and peered through the drizzle to see if there was a light on in Ray’s barge.
But all the barges were dark.
Shame. He would have liked a nice chin-wag with Ray.
And a spot of weed, maybe …
He trudged on. His feet slipped in the mud, but he kept his balance. It was a dark, nasty night, for sure.
Ahead he could just make out the old chapel in Ingleston.
And next to it the mounds and hillocks in the meadow where the old village once had been.
Black Death killed the village, all those years ago.
And now this bloody supermarket wants to come and kill it all over again.
Somewhere under these fields his ancestors had lived and toiled and died.
Sam knew that because he’d seen the parish records — the Lewis line went all the way back. Not that they’d come far since medieval times, he had to admit.
Reckon them Lewises kept pigs back in the day, just like me, he thought. Only difference is the price mine get at market.
We’re still just poor bloody farmers. Bloody supermarkets snap their fingers and the Lewises jump.
Right, thousand years ago the lords and ladies snapped their fingers too and the Lewises jumped.
Same old, same old.
As he walked round the side of the graveyard he heard a loud noise from behind the graves.
Like a stone being knocked over.
Like someone had slipped.
He paused for a moment and listened hard. Fox, maybe? Badger?
He peered into the darkness, but couldn’t see any movement. So he turned and headed for the woods. Five more minutes and he’d be home anyway.
*
When he came out of the woods it had really started to tip it down. The heavy rain even blowing sideways.
Ahead he could just see the outline of the farm.
No lights on — but no surprise there. Joel would be fast asleep.
Lazy sod doesn’t give a damn about anything!
He pulled his jacket tight. He’d started to shiver.
All I need now, he thought, come down with some bug just when we’re pigging.
He looked across at the barns and the pens where the boar were kept.
This part of year was breeding time — he and Joel had their work cut out, getting the sows all ready, sorting the pens for the little squeakers when they came in the spring, repairing the fences.
Boars were right buggers, dig their way out of prison they would if you put ’em there.
And the new male they’d bought last month — Hercules — he looked strong enough to build a bloody tunnel to France!
What a creature he was! Nigh on 400 pounds, head and shoulders like a battering ram, teeth like razors, and an appetite like a right young’un!
The sows couldn’t get enough of him!
All the more reason for stopping those Zakro bastards from ripping up half the woods and sticking their monster supermarket on his doorstep.
Sam started to feel angry again.
Bastids.
Bastids!
He headed across the muddy farmyard towards the house, then stopped.
The sows in the pens were rattling the metal gates and grunting.
Odd.
This time of night it should be all quiet.
Maybe there were foxes out.
He thought about ignoring it, heading inside to his Scotch, getting on that sofa by the wood burner.
But the sows were like family. If they weren’t happy — then Sam wasn’t happy.
He thought about waking up Joel — but he knew his brother ‘needed’ his sleep.
Besides, rousing the bugger would be just as much effort.
Head down against the wind and the rain, Sam trudged across the yard towards the pens.
*
When he reached the open barn the grunting from the sows got louder. A series of pens separated the male boar on one side from the sows on the other, all carefully configured so that you could channel the boar to the right sow.
Bit like a maze — at least that’s what it looked like at this time of night. Except it had lots of gates at stages to do the funnelling.
The pigging lane they called it.
In the rutting season you had to keep the boar away from the sows until you were ready — like herding angry hippos.
At one end of the pigging lane, in his own pen, he could see Hercules. Sam couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not — the giant boar stood motionless in the mud.
You didn’t want to mess with an animal like Hercules. He could knock you over in an instant.
And if you didn’t get up you’d be dead.
But there was no way the big boar could get out of that pen: it had double height rails and extra gates.
No need to worry about Hercules tonight.
He looked across at the far pen with the sows in it. In the darkness he could just see the shapes of the three sows — big fat lumps they were.
Dopy, Daisy and Dozy. Couldn’t have named them better.
And now he saw the problem. One of the rails had been left across the water butt — and the sows were desperate to drink.
Bloody Joel, shouldn’t have gone to bed wit
hout checking that, he thought. Little brother’s getting a clip round the ear tomorrow.
He could have walked all the way round the pens and come in on the far side of the barn to sort it.
But the quicker way was to hop over the rails and use the pigging lane.
Sam climbed up on the rail and jumped over.
His feet instantly shot away from him in the thick mud, but he just caught hold of the rail and kept upright.
He walked slowly down the lane, towards the sows.
“All right my lovelies, don’t you worry,” he said softly. “Daddy’s here to get your water.”
In the thick mud he had to watch his step, but eventually he reached the gate and the water butt.
He pulled at the gate, but it was jammed solid.
Bloody Joel, lazy bastard, should have fixed this.
As he pushed at the gate, the sows started to get agitated, grunting and squeaking and pushing each other all over the place.
“Easy there.”
What was up with them? They didn’t normally get like this.
The gate finally gave way and the route for the sows was clear.
“There you go! Drinks are on me!”
Sam splashed his hand in the butt and watched the sows. But instead of coming towards the water, they were running around the back of the pen, like they were in a panic.
Like the boar was being presented, thought Sam.
But that wasn’t possible.
The gates were surely in place across the pigging pen — and would be for at least another couple of weeks.
These sows weren’t quite ready for the administrations of Hercules.
What was wrong with them?
And then Sam heard a noise behind him.
A terrifying noise.
Because he knew what the noise was.
He’d been breeding boars long enough.
He turned, thinking — this isn’t possible …
But it was not only possible — it had happened.
Hercules was out of his pen.
Sam could see the enormous animal running — straight towards the sows.
No.
Straight towards him.
He was just thirty yards away. Twenty …
Running at thirty miles an hour.
Four hundred pounds of muscle and claw and tooth that wasn’t going to stop.
Sam backed away fast, took a step — and slipped.
The boar was almost on him. He had to get out of here fast.
Cherringham--Murder Most Wild Page 2
